


Crispy Duck

by smb (Overnighter)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Crime Fighting, Gen, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/pseuds/smb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A late-night search for comfort food turns deadly for Jim and Blair.</p>
<p>Warnings: Tiny, blink-and-you-miss-them spoilers for <cite>The Killers</cite> and <cite>Remembrance</cite>. There's some cop/criminal violence in the story, if such things are a concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crispy Duck

All he had wanted was some crispy duck. It hadn't seemed like much to ask for, even though it was nearly nine by the time they had returned from the Caruso stakeout. He had been thinking about it since lunchtime that day, when Sandburg, eying the cold Wonderburger remains of his breakfast, started in on the significance of food in modern culture.

As Sandburg had droned on and on about the importance of comfort food, Jim was unexpectedly cast back to his childhood, to rainy spring weekend days when his father would be traveling, and when he and Stevie would beg Sally to cook traditional Chinese food for them. She was always thrilled when they took an interest in what they all thought of as her "outside" life, but it was unspoken rule that they could only do it when William was safely out of the time zone. It wouldn't have done for him to know that his boys were getting the large part of their cultural education, what they both had come to think of as their own heritage, from the Chinese housekeeper. It certainly would have raised a few eyes at the country club, if nowhere else.

He was startled from his thoughts by the radio crackling to life with Brown's urgent voice.

"Suspect is on the run, Ellison. Headed straight towards you, armed and motivated. It appears he's being chased by a large German shepherd."

He had not even had time to start the truck when Caruso dashed past, the aforementioned animal hard on his heels. With a squeal of terror, the suspect had taken a quick right down an alley too narrow for the truck to follow, which meant that he and Sandburg had had to follow the dog, on foot, in the driving rain, like it was some kind of Keystone Kops movie.

When they finally had caught up with him, pinned against a wall at the blind end of the alley, they'd had to subdue the dog as well as the suspect, which necessitated a trip to the CPD showers to clean up the worst of the damage before tackling the seemingly endless paperwork. Who knew there was a special form for the use of an attack animal in a criminal arrest?

By the time they'd finished it was long past dinnertime and neither of them had had more than half a Sandburg lecture for lunch. He had been thinking longingly of Chinese takeout, greasy spareribs, hot-and-sour soup, and whatever vegetable-based concoction Sandburg was actually going to let him order, when they'd headed out for the night.

They'd headed back to the loft, intent on ordering dinner. Actually, Jim had been intent on stopping right then for takeout, but Blair had insisted, with a wave that encompassed his whole outfit, that he wasn't going anywhere but right home. Dressed in a mismatched pair of sweats, Rafe's pants pooling around his ankles and Jim's own spare sweatshirt rolled up into absurdly large cuffs around his elbows, he did look a bit more like a motherless child then usual. Or fatherless child, Jim supposed. The only motherless child in the truck looked much like he always did, dressed in his spare CPD workout outfit, minus the sweatshirt.

So when Sandburg had poked his wet head around the bathroom door after his second shower of as many hours and asked what he wanted to do for dinner after all, Jim had surprised Sandburg and himself by saying,

"What do think about heading out to that new place in Chinatown - the one where that girl you tutored works?"

Blair had grimaced at Jim, his reply slightly muffled by the towel he tossed over his head to catch the worst of his dripping mane.

"Man, it is still raining like crazy out there," he had said "And, in case you haven't noticed, I'm still drip-drying here. Couldn't we just order in from the Good Ho if you're in the mood for Chinese? At least they deliver."

"Come on, Sandburg. Aren't you the one that was saying just this afternoon that we, as Americans, don't get enough cultural context with our convenience food..." Jim had trailed off as the younger man's head suddenly popped out from under the towel, making him look, momentarily, like the world's hairiest tortoise.

"Wait a minute, you were actually listening to me?" he had said, draping the towel around his shoulders in order to free his hands for conversation as he wandered into the living room.

"I always listen to you, Chief; I just don't always let you know. I think it's bad for your ego," Jim had said with a grin.

Sandburg had continued on as if he hadn't spoken, "Not only listening to me, but apparently storing it up for later ammunition, to use against me, in weather like this, just to make me have to trek all the way down to - Hey! What did you jut say?"

Sandburg had come to an abrupt stop as the meaning of Jim's words penetrated, then wiped out Jim's offending grin by the simple expedient of tossing his towel in Jim's face.

"What's with the sudden need to join forces with Noah and the ark, man? The Good Ho's got good food. Last time you had their hot-and-sour soup I thought that I was going to have to check the bowl for red-headed hookers. The noises you were making were obscene!"

Jim had tossed back the towel at that, but Sandburg had simply grinned his own crooked grin and tossed it on the general direction of his floor.

"I know, I know, I'll pick it up later, after you've explained to me your newly discovered love of the cold, wet outdoors. Where we were, in fact, cold and wet not less than an hour ago," he had added as he paused to tuck his three shirts into the waistband of his jeans.

"I'm just -- I'm in the mood for duck. I've been thinking about it all day," Jim had confessed, shamefaced, "And you know it's only ever any good unless you eat it in the restaurant. Otherwise, it gets too soggy." Okay, so his last comment had sounded rather too close to whine for his comfort In any case, it had appeared to convince Blair.

"So it's a craving? Not some kind of weird payback torture for the smell tests last weekend?"

"No, it's not payback. This will actually smell good, unlike your disgusting vials. Where on earth did you find bat vomit in Cascade anyway? You know what, don't answer that. I don't really want to know."

"Well, if it's just a craving, why didn't you say so?" Blair had demanded as he tied back his still-damp hair and crossed over to the coat rack to begin rummaging for his spare rain coat. "I think we can handle this particular craving.Particularly if you promise to make up for it tomorrow with an algae shake. Then, I might be able to overlook the fact that you ate grease at every meal today."

He had turned back from his search with a wicked gleam in his eye as Jim groaned.

"Algae shake? Now that's torture. Besides, it won't be for every meal..."

Blair had crowed, then tossed Jim his own rain gear.

"Oh no? Did you think that the Wonderburger you had for breakfast - for breakfast! - wasn't going to come back and bite you on the ass eventually?"

Jim had sighed as he shrugged back into his jacket.

"Fine. One algae shake. But if I hear a single word from you tonight about fat content, vegetables, or anything remotely healthy, you'll be eating Wonderburger for breakfast, I promise you.

They had left the apartment, laughing, and had made it to the truck to discover that the rain had slowed to a trickle.

On the whole, it had looked like a promising end to the evening. That was always the way, Jim thought, surveying the aftermath. These things always started out well.

*

The streets of Chinatown had gleamed in the rain, just as Jim remembered, and several of his old haunts were still there, lit by blinking neon in the cool evening, as they drove quickly through the mostly deserted streets. He could not remember being down here as a child without a crush of people surrounding him, but of course it was late, and miserable, and many of the Chinese of his own generation had moved to modern homes in Cascade and its suburbs. In his mind, though, it was still the bustling, fascinating, escape from his normal world that Sally had once opened to him.

They had made excellent time, despite the rain, but had still pulled up at the restaurant - Chao's - only moments before closing. They had shrugged, and were on the verge of returning to the truck when Sandburg's student - what was her name, Jaime, Jenny? - had spotted them. She had barreled down the street after them and insisted that they come in for dinner despite the late hour.

"We'll still open, technically," she had said, "But even if we weren't, we'd cook something up for you, Professor," she said with a bright smile. Jim had groaned as they turned as a group to enter the restaurant.

This girl couldn't have been more than twenty years old, but she still had caught a serious case of Sandburg worship. Of course, in this case, it was probably due more to the fact that he'd been tutoring - Janey, that was her name! - for free all semester then to his considerable Sandburgian charms. Jim had been surprised to hear that, considering how close to the edge Sandburg usually skated financially, but Blair had simply shrugged, and muttered something about how hard it was to work a lot and still go to school full time. Jim had wondered how much of that knowledge was from personal experience, and vowed to make this dinner, at least, his treat.

The restaurant was modest, dimly lit, but Jim had seen, by simply turning up the dial a notch or two, that it was clean. They had appeared to be the only other customers at the late hour, and he had joined Sandburg at protesting their intrusion, but Janey had simply smiled and insisted that her family would be insulted if they could not serve the Professor Sandburg they'd been hearing so much about.

So they had sat a table in a dim corner, and as Blair had blushed pink and chatted amiably with the various members of Janey's family that came and went, Jim had played with the lazy Susan in the center of the table, pondering the many Sunday meals he and Stevie had spent in this same position. Of course, back then, the language had been Chinese, and he and his brother had been dressed to the nines in their Sunday best, too afraid to disappoint Sally to display any of their usual rivalry by kicking at each other under the table, or arguing about who was crowding who.

"Jim! Jim, come back to me, come on, already." Blair's urgent hiss had woken him from his contemplation of the spinning wheel, and he had looked up, startled, into the face of an elderly Chinese woman.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I didn't quite hear you," Jim had admitted to her with a placating smile.

"This is Janey's grandmother," Blair had interrupted, and had added, almost as an afterthought, "She doesn't speak a lot of English."

"No duck. So sorry, too late. You eat with us," she had repeated, as though the words were far more urgent than they actually were. So, no duck after all this fuss. Oh well, it was still nice to be able to revisit one of the nicer memories of his childhood.

"That's okay. Whatever you have is fine with us," Blair had been quick to assure her, and Jim had chimed in his agreement.

"You come again, Sunday maybe, to it. Our duck is best. You eat real food, yes? Not just _gwai lo_ Chinese?" she had asked.

Her unexpected use of the derisive Chinese word for "foreigner" had startled both of them, but she obviously had them pegged as a cut above the usual customer. Thanks again to Sandburg's charm, Jim was sure. They had nodded their agreement again, and she had smiled as she reached over to pat Blair's cheek possessively.

"You are good to help Jia Li. We help you. Too thin!" Blair had blushed again, and waved it off in an embarrassed way when Jim cracked up as she turned to make her slow trip back to the kitchen.

"Cut it out, man," he had ordered, as Jim had reached over to poke at his barely-there belly. Sandburg's lack of washboard abs was a running joke between them, but Jim knew better then to harp on it too long. Although Sandburg was far from vain, he was surprisingly sensitive about how he measured up against Jim's disciplined physique.

He had settled down quickly, and Sandburg had started in almost immediately after.

"I should ask Janey if she chose her English name because it sounds so much like her Chinese name," Blair had said, and Jim was just thinking of telling him the story of how Danny Choi had gotten his own English name - from Sally, of all people - when the kitchen exploded in noise and sound.

*

The last thing Jim had seen before he bent over in agony, hands flying up to cover his ears, was Janey's grandmother, falling heavily back from the doors. His hearing hadn't been turned up that high, but the noise had been unexpected, to say the least. Blair had grabbed his arm and pulled him down to the ground on the side of the table closest to the wall.

"Dial it down, Jim" he'd ordered. "Dial it all down. I know that can't have felt very good, but you've got to get it under control."

Blair hadn't kept up his usual steam of comforting chatter, but instead had rubbed a callused hand comfortingly up and down Jim's arm under the sleeve of his shirt. After a few minutes, he'd been able to wrestle the dials back almost to normal levels, and he had looked up into Sandburg's concerned face.

"I'm okay, now. Thanks," he had said hoarsely, as the anthropologist smiled with relief, "What happened?"

"I don't know. It doesn't smell like a gas leak. Do you smell gas? How're your dials? It's not gas, is it? Do you feel sick or anything?"

"No, not gas," he had replied, wincing as the rebound headache from his ringing ears began to make itself known. "It doesn't smell like gas."

"Head bothering you?" Blair had asked, still watching him carefully. Jim had simply nodded tersely.

"Okay, then, here's what we're gonna do. I don't smell fire, I don't see fire. I'm gonna assume that this was just some freaky kitchen accident, unless you tell me otherwise. So, for a change," he had said, fumbling through the pocket of his jacket, which was still hanging from the back of his chair, "You're going to be phone boy. Call it in, ask for ambulance, fire trucks, the whole works. I'm just going to check and make sure everyone's all right."

Jim had started to protest, but Blair had simply dropped the phone into Jim's hand and slipped out from behind the table. With a resigned sigh, Jim had punched in the speed-dial to the Cascade dispatch and called it in.

"Hey!" Sandburg had shouted, just as Jim thumbed off the phone and tucked it into his own pocket, and the cop had winced again as his hearing dial spun out of control, "Is everybody okay?"

Jim had frozen as his suddenly too-sensitive hearing picked up the murmur of voices from behind the battered kitchen doors.

"We warned you what would happen if you didn't pay us the protection money. We told you that this would be the result. You have embarrassed us in front of the neighborhood. We have no choice but to make an example," a low, angry voice had said, then stopped, abruptly, at Sandburg's shout.

"Who is out in the dining room?" the unseen voice had demanded, and followed the question with the crack of metal hitting, and breaking, a bone.

Jim had heard a soft male voice, which he thought must be Janey's father, the cook, in response,

"There is no one here but us. Perhaps the noise has drawn someone from the street." There had been another crack, and Jim had heard soft, female sobbing in the background.

"Please. Don't hurt him. Don't hurt them."

"Who's there?" the voice demanded, raised now, and ringing in Jim's ears. After a moment, the question was repeated, louder. "Who's there?"

It was clear that Sandburg had finally heard the voice, and Jim had tensed as he responded.

"Who's that?" Blair had asked, "It's Blair and Jim. Is everybody okay? Do you need help? I'm checking on Mrs. Chao right now," he had said.

"Go see who's out there," the voice had ordered. Obviously not alone, Jim had thought. He had heard the new voices easily, but it was clear that Sandburg had not. He had carefully drawn his weapon and eased the safety off as he pulled himself out of his crouch behind the table.

"Sandburg, no!" Jim had whispered, but he was already out of range. Blair had grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall, intent on reaching the kitchen, then paused to check on Janey's grandmother.

"Are you okay?" he had asked, his voice loud and anxious. The grandmother was already in the process of helping herself up, but Blair had knelt down beside her to lend a hand.

Jim had taken careful aim at the center of the swinging kitchen doors, hoping that Sandburg would have heard as well, and have had enough sense to get out of the way. Instead, Sandburg had helped the elderly women to sit up, just as Jim had heard footsteps headed towards the doors.

"Sandburg," he had called out loud, "GET DOWN." Blair had stolen a glance at him then dove for the floor, trying to pull the women with him, but she had resisted. As Jim had watched in horror, two young Chinese men had burst through the door, semi-automatics held carelessly at waist-level. They were dressed in tight jeans and dark leather jackets, wearing the colors of one of the local tongs.

Janey's grandmother had seemed singularly unimpressed by their appearance. Rather than cringe at their approach, she had begun berating them, loudly. Blair had continued to try to pull her out of their path, but she seemed not to fear them.

"How could you do this to my family? Do you think I'm afraid of you? That my family is afraid? I lived through the Cultural Revolution, do you think this will scare us off?" she demanded. Not good English, my ass, Jim had a second to think, and then the two men, apparently tired of their dressing down, had raised their weapons to the ready position.

"Boss, we found the old lady and a white boy out there. What do you want us to do?" the one on the left had called out. Jim had waited, his own gun in firing position, aching to call for back-up, aching to take out this unforeseen threat to his friend and roommate, but he was loathe to give away his so-far-undetected presence.

Then the still-unknown voice had called out, softly, "Kill them. They are not important."

Jim had eased his finger back on the trigger as he realized in horror that the old woman was directly in his line of fire. He had heard the snick of the safety's release, and had called, without thinking, as the two men raised their weapons,

"Aunty, get down. They're going to fire."

Blair had apparently realized the same thing at the same time, and had thrown himself in front of Janey's grandmother at the same time she collapsed back to the floor. Blair had landed heavily on top of her, covering her with his body. Jim had heard the first bullets fly, but he was too busy lining up his own shot to see where they landed. He had squeezed off two shots in less than a second, hitting one of the mobsters in the gun hand, knocking the gun across the room, and hitting the other directly in the head. As the head shot dropped, his weapon had fired randomly, sending bullets scattering across the room for several seconds.

"What was that?" the voice had demanded again, but Jim was already on the move, towards the kitchen, gun at the ready. He hadn't wanted to waste the time with handcuffs, so he'd simply knocked the second gunman unconscious with the butt of his gun before he could answer that disembodied voice. He could hear the distance sounds of sirens drawing closer, but his hearing abruptly spiked in and out again.

He had been torn between his Covert Ops training and his overwhelming need to protect his guide and friend. He should have stayed behind his cover, waited for back up, especially since he had no idea how many more people were really in the kitchen, but he had seen Blair lying atop the old woman, had smelled blood, a lot of it, and had moved without thinking.

Blair had still been lying atop the old woman, covering her, not moving, as a pool of blood grew beneath them both. The smell of it had been nearly overwhelming, and Jim had not been able to tell whose blood had been spilled. He had taken a moment to check that they were both alive, both still breathing, before hauling them unceremoniously out of the middle of the floor and behind an overturned table. He had heard shouting and scrabbling in the kitchen before his hearing kicked out again, but so far, no one else had appeared.

*

To his relief, Blair had opened his eyes almost immediately after being dropped behind the table.

"Jim!" he had whispered urgently, "Where's Mrs. Chao? I think I hurt her when I knocked her down."

As he had sat up, Jim could see his hair had come loose from its tie, and was matted with blood. The sentinel had taken a deep breath and, with one ear still on the kitchen, had taken a moment to catalogue his guide. The blood smell, while still sickening, seemed to come mostly from his hair. His color was good, his heartbeat was strong, if too fast, but under the circumstances Jim had figured he'd let it slide. He could smell fresh blood, too, but couldn't locate it.

"I'm okay, Jim. A little battered, but nothing serious. How about Mrs. Chao?" Blair had asked again, and Jim turned his attention to the older woman. She had pulled herself up against the back of the table, and was hugging her middle with an arm.

"Are you okay, aunty? Are you shot? Or hurt somewhere else?" he whispered. He felt, rather than saw, Blair's sharp glance, but ignored it for the moment.

"I'm fine," she had answered, just as quietly, "Just winded from the professor's fall. Maybe he's not too skinny after all," she had added with a weak smile.

"Jim, what the heck is going on?" Sandburg had hissed. Jim had shrugged, and turned back to Janey's grandmother.

"Who are these men?" he had asked, "Have they hurt you before?" The old women had shaken her head at that, then spat on the floor beside her.

"Vincent Hong and his tong. They want our money for their "protection." Protection? Protection from them, only," she had snarled, but still quietly.

"Jim," Sandburg had whispered again, now staring at him openly, "What about Janey and her family? Can you hear them? Who's in the kitchen with them? What's going on?" Jim had stared at him, bewildered, for a second, as Sandburg sighed expansively.

"Your hearing, Jim. How is it? Can you listen for how many people are in the kitchen? Are they coming for us?"

"How many were in the kitchen?" he had asked.

"Five," Mrs. Chao had answered quickly, "My son, Jia Li, her mother and the two boys."

She had nodded absently at him as Sandburg had reached for his arm to ground him.

"Open up your hearing, slowly, one notch at a time. Listen for the heartbeats. See how many you can pick out, and where they are," he had murmured softly.

Jim had just been about to tell him that his hearing was on the fritz when Sandburg's touch seemed to bring it all under control. He had listened intently, half-expecting someone to come bursting through the kitchen doors at any minute, wondering why it was taking so long. He had heard the same deep voice, now with a note of worry in it, continuing its tirade.

"You see what happens to those without protection. Even now, my men desecrate the bodies of your mother, your friend. Without respect, see what I must become."

He had tuned it out, tuned out the same soft sobbing, felt Sandburg's comforting grip on his arm and went deeper, listening to the heartbeats in the restaurant. Rapidly, he had catalogued and put aside the old woman's and Sandburg's own. He had located the faster heartbeats of the young boys on the far side of the kitchen, then the frantically beating hearts of the three adults, closer to the door. He had heard only one more heart beat, in a slow steady rhythm. Could there really be only one more? He had supposed it made a sort of sense. A shakedown, with the principle and his two henchmen. After all, most shop-owners were too afraid to fight back against the tongs at all.

The piercing wail of a siren had wrenched him back. With Blair's grounding, he was able to pull his hearing back to normal levels quickly, but the damage had been done.

"Where are you? What's taking so long?" the voice had demanded, loudly, from the kitchen, suddenly anxious and commanding. "We must finish up here before the authorities arrive."

Even if it was just one man, Jim hadn't liked the odds, not if that man was armed. He had fished the phone out of his pocket and thrust it at Sandburg, then prepared to take the kitchen himself.

"Call it in, and make sure they know we need back up," he had muttered, checking the chamber of his gun. He had looked closely over at Sandburg, then, seen the blood still dripping from his hairline. "Tell them we've got an officer down, too," he added softly.

"Jim, just what do you think you're going to do?" Sandburg had demanded. "They already know the jig is up."

"There's only one left," he had answered.

Jim had stood, preparing to leave their improvised barricade, when, to his surprise, Janey's grandmother had grabbed hold of his leg.

"You can't go in there, not with my family there," she had said, "You must find a way to draw him out. He doesn't know you're here. He thinks we are dead. Talk to him."

"He'll know I'm not them," Jim had answered, but she had merely shaken her head and held on.

"Not if you are quick, and confusing. Draw him out," she repeated.

Jim had looked to Sandburg for an idea, but he was staring at the two of them with a glazed statement on his face as he muttered urgently into the phone. Okay, apparently he was on his own.

He had pushed both Blair and the elderly woman flat again, and stood in a comfortable firing stance, aimed at the kitchen doors. He had vaguely heard Blair giving their position, and telling the officers not to fire on him, as he had called out rapidly, in a loud voice:

"You must come out here! The police are headed around the back with the fire department. They think there is a leak. If we leave by the front door, no one will see us. Quickly, we must go."

There had been silence for a moment, and his heart had dropped, but the voice had answered calmly seconds later, "I need help to get rid of the others."

"Leave them," Jim had answered, thinking frantically. "We'll start the fire here. No one will know. It will be more natural."

"What?" the voice had asked, and Jim had heard the soft sobs in the kitchen turn to wails of terror. But he had also heard footsteps, moving towards the dining room. He had drawn a bead on the kitchen doors, and as soon as he saw them start to swing open, he had cocked the hammer of the gun.

"Freeze! Cascade police," he had called as the unknown man stepped through the doors. He was a middle-aged Chinese man, heavyset, wearing an elegantly tailored wool topcoat covered with fresh flecks of someone's blood. He was reaching into the inner pocket of his coat when Jim had fired off his first warning shot.

"I said freeze! Don't make me shoot you too," he had snarled, and the man had come to an abrupt stop, looking around at the carnage of the dining room for the first time. Behind him, he heard Blair give the all-clear, and suddenly the room was suddenly filled with emergency personnel, police officers and firemen.

One of the uniformed officers had cuffed his suspect, and he had felt Blair's hand against his arm a moment later, drawing his gun down towards the floor.

"It's okay, big guy. They've got him. Put the gun away before someone gets hurt," he had murmured, gesturing towards Mrs. Chao hobbling across his line of sight towards her family in the kitchen.

He had holstered the gun and turned towards his battered roommate with a sudden realization.

"Hey, we need a medic here! Sandburg's been shot!"

*

Jim was leaning against the side of his truck, his eyes closed against the pounding behind his eyes. His headache had returned with a vengeance as soon as he had ascertained that Sandburg was all right, throbbing with a combination of hunger and the earlier assault on his senses.

He was waiting for them to finish tending to Blair's "scalp lac," at the remaining ambulance. Two had left earlier carrying Janey's father, who'd been the one beaten by Vincent Hong, and grandmother to Cascade General, and another had just taken one of Jim's targets to Mercy. His other victim would be leaving for the city morgue later that evening.

Sandburg had insisted that he was fine, didn't need a trip to the hospital for a few measly stitches, and Jim had been banished from his side when he had started to side with the paramedics. Which was fine with Jim, since his knees had weakened abruptly at the sight of the short, shallow groove along Blair's forehead where the bullet had just grazed him as it sped by. Just a turn of the head in either direction and the man he called his best friend would have left him forever. He felt his stomach roil as he contemplated that thought for a moment.

He opened his eyes as the smell of cigars and stale coffee wafted towards him, and nodded at his commander as he wove his way through the remaining emergency vehicles, two styrofoam cups in hand.

"Hey, Simon, what are you doing here?" he asked, accepting one of cups with a nod of thanks.

Simon leaned up against the truck next to Jim.

"I heard it in the car on the way back from Daryl's ball game. How's the kid?"

"All right, I guess," Jim answered, turning up his hearing to listen in on Blair's ongoing conversation, "It sounds like he's convinced them to just give him a few butterfly bandages and send him on his way. It was a close one, though, Simon. Christ, I think I might just lock him up in the loft from now on. All though, all things considered, he'd probably have just as many problems there."

"Yeah," Simon agreed with a deep-throated laugh, "the kid does seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course, some would argue - so do you,"

"Hey, this was a legitimate fluke. We just wanted.."

"I know, I know," Simon interrupted. "Sandburg already told me, at length, on the phone on the way over. 'Just wanted the crispy duck, just wanted the crispy duck,'" Simon mimicked.

"Which, I'd like to point out, we didn't get. In fact, we didn't get anything at all. If they declare the Energizer bunny over there _compos mentos_ , we've got to find someplace that's still open for dinner."

"That shouldn't be two hard, it's not even eleven o'clock yet,"

Jim started a bit at that. The whole siege from beginning to end had taken less than ten minutes, despite the weird, timeless feeling that those circumstances always had. Ten minutes to destroy a family's livelihood. Ten minutes for him to take a life, however justified. Ten minutes for Sandburg to nearly slip away from him forever. He felt an involuntary shudder crawl up his spine.

"What, Simon?" he asked, when he realized that his captain had been speaking to him. Simon looked over at him strangely.

"I said, here comes Sandburg."

He pointed with his chin, and Jim could see Blair picking his way unsteadily through the remains of the emergency operation.

"Hey, Simon. Janey and her brothers are ready whenever you are," he said as he approached. "I told her I'd be happy to go along, but I think she just wants to be with her family right now," he added, drawing up next to Jim and helping himself to a sip of coffee from the cup in his roommate's lax hand.

Blair was still wearing his bloody clothes, and his hair was sticking up, stiff from the blood, in strange little peaks, but his forehead had been scrubbed clean and neatly closed with a row of butterfly bandages.

"You okay, then, Einstein? No permanent damage to the big brain?" Jim asked, doing his best to sound lighthearted.

Blair nodded, taking another gulp of coffee before he answered.

"'Tis but a flesh wound, man. All systems are still go. Or they will be, just as soon as the java kicks in."

He directed his next question at Simon, who was searching his pockets for his keys.

"How'd you get drafted into chauffeur duty anyway?"

"Oh, we're short on interpreters, so I offered to take Janey and her brothers to the hospital. She's going to help me take the grandmother's statement. It'll just save time, I figured."

Simon continued his search for his keys, but crowed with triumph as he located his half-chewed cigar and returned it to its usual place of honor.

"Come on, Simon - she's hard to understand at first, but it's not bad enough to need an interpreter," Jim protested.

Blair shot him an odd look as Simon abandoned his search to stare at him outright

"Well, you know, Ellison, not everyone has your special gift for language," he commented mildly, then finally dug his keys out of a side pocket.

Jim was puzzled by his remark, but Simon was already turning away.

"Go get something to eat, then go home and get some sleep," he ordered as he walked away. "Come on in first thing tomorrow for the paperwork. It doesn't need to be done tonight."

"Thanks, Simon," Jim called out, but Blair was still shooting him curious looks, covertly.

"Come on, Chief. You ready to get out of here? Forget the duck. I could eat a cow right about now. If we hurry, we could still make the late-night Wonderburger drive-through," he teased.

To his surprise, Blair didn't seem to notice.

"Sure, Jim, whatever," he said in a distracted voice, then seemed to gather himself together. "I'm starving. And I need to wash my hair. For the third time today," he added grumpily.

They climbed into the truck and headed back out of Chinatown, toward home, with Blair still shooting him covert glances. Jim pulled into the first drive-through he saw and ordered a large variety of the worst foods Wonderburger offered. It wasn't often that his guide was so distracted that he missed a high-cholesterol foray. He placed the bags carefully between them, and they alternated stealing fries in silence.

By the time they turned onto Prospect, Jim was thoroughly unnerved. It wasn't like Blair to be so quiet, even after a scene like tonight. As he pulled the truck to a gentle stop in front of their building, he was monitoring Blair with all of his senses. His heartbeat was strong and steady, he didn't smell afraid, he looked okay.

"Hey, Chief," he said softly before Blair could climb out of the truck, "Is everything okay?"

"Hunh? Oh, yeah, Jim, everything's fine. I'm fine, I mean," Sandburg answered, still sounding distracted.

They were halfway to the building when he came to a sudden stop in front of Jim and spun around.

"Jim, how long have you spoken Chinese?" he asked without preamble.

"What?" Jim sputtered in response.

"Chinese. How long have you spoken Chinese? Was it the army, or Sally, or what?" he asked, still standing in the middle of sidewalk.

"I, uh, Sally. It was Sally. Although I didn't really read it until the army," he answered, his heart speeding up.

Suddenly, he felt like a ten-year-old kid again. Trying, and failing utterly, to be just like everyone else. If it wasn't the senses, it was his background. If it wasn't his background, it was his family. And how on earth had Blair figured it out?

"Chief, why do you, I mean, how did you - how did you know?" he asked.

To his surprise, Blair burst out laughing.

"How did I know? How did I know? Jim, you spoke it all night. To Janey's grandmother, to Vincent Hong. You didn't even realize that you were doing it, did you?" Blair said.

He shook his head, miserably. Oh God, now he was doing it involuntarily. How long would it be before he really was in the mental hospital with all of the other freaks?

"Jim, this is soooo cool! You're like, a savant. Not the idiot kind, though, obviously," Blair added as an afterthought as he turned back towards the door.

"Come on, come on. All that grease isn't going to taste any better cold," he said, when he noticed Jim hadn't followed.

"You don't think," Jim hesitated. "You don't think it's _odd_ that I didn't realize it?"

Blair stopped at that, and turned to give him a long, measuring look.

"Of course it's odd, Jim. How many people in the world can speak a foreign language spontaneously - and unconsciously? That's an incredible adaptation. But it's good odd, not bad odd. I promise, nobody's gonna point and call you sideshow freak. I don't think anyone else realized that you didn't know, anyway," he said.

"Oh," Jim said, and suddenly, it was like a weight was lifted from him. Good odd, not bad odd. He hadn't known there was such a thing.

He trailed behind Sandburg as they entered the building, half-listening as Blair debated stairs versus elevator, contemplated tests involving stress and language - _How many foreign languages do you speak, anyway, Jim?_ \- and threatened him yet again with algae.

Good odd, not bad odd. Yeah, that certainly seemed like a pretty good definition of their life together, after all.


End file.
